


The Hidden Springs

by plumedy



Category: Murder Rooms: The Dark Beginnings of Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Case Fic, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 03:38:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10778772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumedy/pseuds/plumedy
Summary: Dr Bell is a snow mage and Arthur Doyle is a young apprentice of his who has lightning powers. They have to navigate their relationships with their respective gifts as well as their relationship with each other.Needless to say, it just has to happen while they are investigating a murder.





	The Hidden Springs

**Author's Note:**

> With endless thanks to my beautiful beta and friend, [MrsHorowietzky](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsHorowietzky). You're also partly responsible for my depiction of a close friendship in this one because you've taught me so much about the matter :)

It is easy enough to judge people by their gifts. To see a lad who grows flowers and think: he must be gentle; to look at a lass with a sunlight power and say: she’s a cheerful one.

But one cliché about my talent was certainly true – it was, at times, desperately hard to command. And had it not been for Dr Bell, who took a sudden and whimsical liking to me when I studied under him in the Alba University, magic might’ve well remained but a rudimentary part of my life, stuff of party tricks and idle amusement.

I remember his lessons well.

“Control, Doyle.” His gloved hand held my wrist, gentle but firm. The small sphere of translucent light at my fingertips shook a little and stilled, growing brighter, electric blue seeping in at its edges. The air around it crackled softly.

“Control and observation. What do you see?”

I saw little enough. The room was submerged in twilight, thick like tobacco smoke, and I was afraid to make my light any brighter lest I should end up hurting him or myself.

“Concentrate on your surroundings. You want to see them; that is enough. Don’t think about _how_ you’re doing it.” He stood behind my back, but, although I couldn’t see his face, I heard the warm patience of his tone. He liked training me, I could tell that.

Taking a deep breath, I did my best to follow his advice. Slowly, slowly the outline of the room’s interior grew around me; like a sketch in bright gold on black paper, I could make out the Doctor’s bookshelves, his desk with stacks of papers neatly arranged on it; a tall mirror in front of me.

I looked at it. Someone offensively young and startlingly serious was looking back at me, his lips compressed in concentration. In front of him floated a huge vivid sphere of pure white, yellow, and blue glow, a brilliant and beautiful thing. It far exceeded anything I could’ve reasonably expected myself to conjure up.

Bell carefully let go of my hand. The sphere wobbled a little, much like a plateful of jelly stabbed with a fork. He moved to stand between me and the mirror; for a breath-taking moment I held the thing all by myself, feeling the raw power in it pulse and beat between my palms.

After a pause he pulled his gloves off and gently took it from me.

The lightning steamed and hissed loudly, spitting large white sparks. I wondered if it was because of how cold his hands were. Was that why he always left the gloves on? Perhaps he didn’t want me to know.

“Very well done,” he said. Then he lifted the sphere up so as to have a better view of me and leaned forward a little, his eyes crinkling in a smile. “What _I_ see, Doyle, is a lad who, judging from the pristine state of his palms and from the shadows under his eyes, has recently spent little time on studies – and yet even less time on sleep. We’re done for today.”

I felt a great surge of pride at his praise and his smile – but simultaneously, my chest tightened with anxiety. His holding that light suddenly seemed a strange and dangerous thing. It was as if he were holding a piece of my very being, able to do with it as he pleased.

Could I trust the man with this much power over me?

Over the years to come – years during which I came to love him and consider him one of my closest friends – I would keep asking myself this question.

_Control and observation._

In a different time and a different place, sitting on the old wooden staircase that led down to a spot of clean light illuminating a small curled body in an ill-fitting red dress, I recalled the Doctor’s injunction. The woman looked mangled, broken, her face buried awkwardly in the dusty carpet. I could make out large drops of candle-wax all around her, like splashes of pale inhuman blood.

My hands tingled. I looked at them absently and saw that the veins shone bright red through my skin. A few sparks dripped off my fingertips, burning the wood of the stairs.

I almost didn’t want to stop myself. What would be the harm in hurling a lightning or two at something inconsequential? What use could there possibly be in such repression?

As if in an approving answer to my thoughts, the magic under my skin buzzed and crackled. It wanted to be released; because it couldn’t fix, it wanted to break.

The floorboards behind me creaked slightly.

“Doyle,” he said, in warning tones.

“Yes?” said I, pretending not to understand.

The Doctor walked down and stood a couple of steps below me, his hands stretched out. When I didn’t react, he moved forward and took me by the left wrist.

It was one of the first times when he touched me without gloves, and I was startled by the sensation. It was not warm human flesh; but it was not the deathly cold of ice, either. His fingers were cool, soothing like spring water.

 _He knows exactly what he’s doing_ , said a mistrustful voice within me. _This is a far cry from an instinctive gesture of sympathy_.

But I still reacted – I couldn’t help it. At once the patterns of scarlet on my arms grew darker. My anger abated, though I did not know if I was happier for it; for instead came a terrible melancholy. I felt that something very undignified might happen if I remained like this any longer, and to save myself the embarrassment, I began to talk – hurriedly and, I’m afraid, without much coherence.

“It’s been a week,” I found myself blurting, “since we were called upon to catch him. And now we come to his very hiding place only to find yet another one of his victims dead. I am beginning to wonder if our intervention in the case has been of any use – _Doctor_ , could we not have saved her?”

He sighed audibly, pausing to look over his shoulder at the subject of the discussion. She lay a long way below him, pitiful, silent, downtrodden. When he looked back at me, the expression in his eyes was strange.

“I have not gathered enough information to come to a definite conclusion,” he said, slowly. “But I am beginning to think the answer might be _no_.”

“How do you mean?” I demanded.

Bell gave me a heavy assessing look.

“I will give you any explanations you desire. But not in the state you’re in. You ought to understand, Doyle, that anger will not help.”

Ironically enough, his argument only gave me my fury back. In retrospect, I’m not sure if he was trying to convince me or himself; but if this was indeed a strategy for bringing me to my senses, it was poorly thought out.

I jerked my hand away from him.

“You know, you’re really quite predictable,” I growled. “ _Control_ ; was that what you wanted to say?”

He stood in front of me, motionless, making no attempt to speak, and my hands were glowing red again, a dark subdued red of dying fire.

“My anger may be no help,” continued I, rising to my feet, “but neither is your preachery.”

At this point a part of me feared I might say things I would later bitterly regret, and I quickly walked down the staircase, leaving the Doctor behind. He looked upon me without a word as I retrieved my coat and left, heading nowhere in particular save that it was away from him.

It was a mild June night outside. For some half an hour I walked straight on, quickly and determinedly, until I could no longer quite tell in which tiny lane of the northern Leith bank I was. Then I slowed my step and breathed easier.

I had not taken my gloves for fear of burning them through; but there was no one to see me at that hour, and the warm red glow at my fingertips suddenly looked anything but intimidating. I lifted my hands and stared at them curiously. The sparks disappearing in the gloom reminded me of falling stars.

To be sure, the gift had its inconveniences, but I was not always at odds with it. It had a great beauty about it that felt right.

I turned my palms skywards and let it burst.

Save for an already dubiously solid lamppost, there was not much in the vicinity that could be easily destroyed; I suppose the fact had given me confidence. A great many flames blossomed in the air around me, blue, golden, pink, all energy and power. Some of them exploded with a dry sound; others drifted down towards the waters of the Leith and sunk silently into its darkness.

I stood for a while in silence. It had felt good to do this, the Doctor say what he might.

But I had to return now; not to the crime scene – he was, I anticipated, long gone from there – but to his rooms at the University. I knew the man too well to think that he might stop because I was gone. On the contrary, to drown out any residual feelings of regret or resentment, he would work harder. He might be midway through preparing for an autopsy for all I knew; it would not do to miss any new developments because of a personal quarrel.

And I did not want to leave like that. It had not been a good parting.

I turned on my heels and began to walk back, hesitantly finding my way through semi-familiar streets. It seemed a long walk to me then, almost endless: I had to marvel at how I had managed to cover such a considerable distance without noticing it. It was many closed shops and dirty little inns with dubiously metaphorical names later that I made out the great majestic outline of the University’s domes.

The moon hung high in the skies, pouring its even silvery light on the city. The corridors of the University were, however, as dark as ever; so was, strangely, the Doctor’s room.

Of course, the door was unlocked, which suggested to me that he was somewhere in the vicinity. And yet the place seemed strangely empty and undisturbed; I walked through it with a sense of growing puzzlement and, I admit, unease.

Then my eye alighted on the tips of his oxford shoes. They were just visible from behind one of the bookshelves, half-concealed by a huge ochre-green tome proclaiming “The Application of Magic in Medicine” on its cover.

I approached the shelf and saw the man himself. The sight struck me quite speechless; but even if it had not, I suspect that my speaking would’ve been in vain. The Doctor would not have heard me.

Constellations upon constellations of ice covered his hair. His skin was an alarming shade of sickly blue. He sat on the floor, staring straight ahead, his fingertips put – _frozen_ _–_ together.

I stood on one knee in front of him, stupidly expecting him to react. His eyes looked at me; they were open, blind, milk white with frost.

My good sense told me, _leave him alone_ ; but something more powerful, more visceral within me cried out, _he’s distressed, he’s unwell_. And then I could no more think of leaving than if someone had physically locked me inside that room.

The stubbornness of the man!

“Is that your vaunted control?” I asked of him, and my voice shook even as I let out a laugh. “Look what you’ve done to yourself!”

Of course, this elicited no reaction. Slowly, tentatively I stretched out my hand and put it on his chest. His high-collared shirt with golden buttons was so crisp as to make any dandy jealous: it crunched and almost broke under my touch.

With infinite care I let the fire from my fingers flow into his bloodstream – only a little at first; then, gradually, more and more of it.

Soon his clothes were dripping with water like a row of icicles on a spring day. Water was streaming from his hair and down his cheeks.

After a while he blinked heavily, starting to come to; his body, however, hardly seemed to obey him. He slumped against the shelf, clinging to the heavy wooden ornaments, and raised his head with some effort. The look on his face was a little wild, much as though he were shocked or unsettled by something, though there was little to be shocked at around but some decrepit items of furniture.

“Doyle,” he said with astonishment. For a while we sat opposite each other in silence; then I offered him my hand, the veins on it still glowing a warm red. He took me by the fingers. The _drip, drip, drip_ of icy water grew more frequent at first; then slowly lessened.

I cleared my throat.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

Bell grimaced. “I’ve been better.”

He carefully rolled his head to the side, studying me.

“I have to apologize. I have been harsh,” he said. His eyes glistened with melting frost. “Unfair.”

I didn’t exactly think myself a paragon of fairness, either, and I didn’t quite know what to say. In truth, in that moment I thought very little of what had happened between us. I was merely delighted to see that he was regaining his strength and that he hadn’t done himself any serious injury.

“There _can_ be too much of a good thing, you know,” I said quietly. "Come."

I helped him up and led him to the armchair near the fireplace. He acquiesced to me pouring some brandy in his mouth and seemed somewhat livelier, though he still struggled to hold his head up and the colour of his cheeks was deathly.

Unlike many a fool, I had never assumed him to be an unfeeling man; it would’ve been a crude mistake to commit. His gift was of the kind that people were sometimes only too ready to fear and deride, but I had seen him use it in the most humane, compassionate ways: to numb others’ pain; to soothe their grief.

Yet I had never thought he might feel anything so fiercely, to the point of self-sabotage and self-destruction. I wondered then if there had been other incidents like this; if he had hidden them from me, just like he always concealed his hands with gloves.

And I felt something else. For the first time in my life, I started to realize that I had power over him – that it wasn’t only he who held a piece of my heart in his hands, but that I could hurt or soothe him, too, and perhaps as easily as he could hurt or soothe me.

He insisted on explaining his thoughts in relation to Miss Richmond’s murder to me in detail, and would not accept any of my protestations that he needed rest.

“Don’t fuss over me, Doyle,” reprimanded he. “I owe you that much. And I shall need your help.

"You'll remember, of course,” he said, “how much wax there was on the floor. Someone stayed with her for a good while even after she was dead.

"And that dress – how strangely ill-fitting it was. Why would she have chosen it of her own will?"

He raised his eyes at me. He was flexing his right hand clumsily, his fingers still shaking with cold.

"In short," said he, "she was not pushed off those stairs."

"Did not die in that house, even," nodded I, digesting this realization. "Or in those clothes.

“What she was wearing must’ve been something that would betray the killer’s scheme. A night-gown, perhaps,” I ventured, warming up to the familiar game. He must've noticed that, because he offered a somewhat weak but earnest smile.

“Someone knew we would be there,” conceded he, “and was trying to frame Richmond for a murder he did not commit.”

I gave that idea some thought.

“That may be as it is, Doctor. But why would anyone need to frame him for a murder when he has one hanging on him already?”

“A good question,” he murmured, glancing at the uneasy skies outside the window. “A good question, the answer to which we shall, I rather think, soon find out for ourselves.

“Some while ago, I have put out word that I am looking for witnesses of any altercations involving Peter Richmond.”

“Among whom?”

“Among some of my patients,” he said, suddenly smiling.

“No one has come forward at the request of the police.”

“I think you’ll find these are the sort of patients who will never go to the police,” laughed the Doctor, “but who may well come to me.”

He slumped forward in an awkward semblance of his usual keen hunched pose, intertwining his fingers. In his blue eyes, still sparkling with the remnants of his amusement, I read something almost like a plea. He looked like he wished to say, _see; I have done well._ _I have done all I could._

My stomach churned.

“Say, Bell,” I began awkwardly, intending, I imagine, to say something along the lines of _I don’t want to leave you on your own like this_. Instead I found myself blurting, “I’ll make you a cup of tea, shall I?”

  


Peter Richmond was a young clerk from the Old City. He had the unusual gift of metal-wielding, which he employed, however, mostly to stage cheap street shows for public amusement. A gambler, he constantly needed money which he had no other means of obtaining.

He was at times intemperate with drink; and such funds as he didn’t spend on play or spirits he gave away. His respectable relatives despised him heartily and thoroughly for his habits, but what he lost in their prayers he gained in the affection of the local beggars and the customers of the famous Lockard Soup Kitchen. When Peter was rich, so were they; when he was poor, they had to be thrifty with their spendings – and their soup – waiting for him to get lucky again.

Every once in a while he’d show up at home with a heap of outrageously expensive garish gifts for his sister, Ann-Lily Richmond, only to disappear again and be found blackout drunk in a ditch a week later.

In short, the man was, as Inspector Hogben had aptly put it, “of thoroughly chaotic character”, and the police were none too surprised when he disappeared, leaving one of his gambling companions dead with a slashed throat.

Not everyone had agreed with Hogben’s assessment of the situation.

“He has his hert in the right place, he does,” Richmond’s cousin, a stout Old City grocer, had said. “Though the same may not be always said of his _heid_. The lad is anything but a murderer.”

“He spent a week by my side when I was ill with smallpox,” shrugged Andrew James, his street show partner. “The bobbies must have it all backwards. That, or Pete had a damn good reason to kill that blighter.”

Ann-Lily was among those who’d refused to believe Peter guilty; she refused to give up her search for him, and she’d paid dearly for her love and her loyalty.

Perhaps it was wrong, sinful of me to be glad that her death was not our fault. Would it have mattered to her who was to blame? But I was, I was glad; it was blissful relief being able to think: I have nothing to reproach myself with. _He_ has nothing to reproach himself with.

I walked down the well-lit Haesta Road with its small coffee shops and narrow houses, and turned into one of the streets running parallel to the river. It was comfortably dark and very quiet; my steps echoed between the damp stone walls. I let a current run over the tips of my fingers, and its sparks, blue like St. Elmo’s fires, lit my way.

There was a lot for me to ponder in regards to the Richmond case and the effect it was having on the Doctor. Plainly, the superb perfection of his self-command that had got him so far was a mortal threat to him now, and I was the only man who could so much as hope to remedy that state of affairs. But what had I to offer him? I looked at the cold sparks raining from my knuckles to the wet pavement and remembered the sparkling frost covering his skin and his eyes. The problems my gift brought with it seemed suddenly minor and easily solved.

The street I had chosen branched out in a mesh of crooked lanes running steeply uphill. I was in Cat’s Gullet, the lowest land point in the city. The house I currently occupied was located on its slope, halfway to the top of a hilly formation loftily called the Height of Arrows – though it was not much of a height and the last time someone fired an arrow from it must’ve been a good few centuries ago. The university students who rented cheap rooms on the Height and deeply resented having to climb it had long taken to calling it “the Blighted Barrow” (and worse besides).

In front of me was a small square illuminated by the fuzzy light of two street lamps. To the left, the Alba Castle with its curled stone decorations loomed high above the roofs of the decrepit houses; to the right, a narrow Georgian bridge crossed the black river in one long unbroken stretch.

It was when I walked closer to the lights of the square that I noticed something – a reflection in the glistening slab of stone under my shoes; a slight movement of a shadow.

I turned, very carefully and very slowly. Something shrank away from me and into the darkness; there was a quiet _clank_.

I let feeble light at the tips of my fingers flare up into a large sphere. In the blinding flash, something hissed past my shoulder and twanged against the stone wall behind my back. Gripping my assailant’s forearm, I felt the current crackle between our skins; felt his muscles relax and grow flaccid as cotton. The important thing now was to avoid overdoing it – I couldn’t imagine Bell being particularly pleased if I somehow managed to electrocute our murder suspect.

The face looking up at me, shock and pain plainly written on it, was surprisingly young. He was barely my age; perhaps not even that. His chin was prickly with stubble, and the collar of his white shirt was stained with something yellow.

I shifted my gaze to his weapon. It was not a knife nor a dagger; instead, the blade stuck out of the man’s arm like a bone might stick from a healed wound. It was blue-grey and smooth – unnaturally so – like nothing that ever came from a smithy.

“There’s no need for this, Richmond,” I said quietly. “We know you didn’t kill her.”

“We?” he asked only, his voice feeble.

“Surely you must’ve heard of the Doctor to attack me?”

He licked his lips and swallowed.

“Yes. They’ve told me about him.”

His former gambling friends, surely. All that time it had not been the police he was hiding from; not arrest he feared.

“Whoever they are, they must be fools,” remarked I, “to try to interfere when they know Joseph Bell is involved.”

“I wish they were that,” murmured he. I relaxed my grip on his arm a little, and the blade bent and flowed, shifting neatly back into the shape of a human hand. It still felt icy cold; much colder than I remembered Bell’s hands to be.

Richmond deflated, somehow, once I let go of him. His gaze grew mournful and unfocussed; he seemed hardly to hear me. By all rights I should have had no compassion for the man who’d just attempted to brutally murder me, but I couldn’t help a sharp sting of pity.

“What were you thinking, man?” I asked with feeling, shaking the remaining sparks off my hands. “What would’ve been the sense in killing me? By God, but you act like you’re keen on getting yourself hanged.”

He waved this off.

“It’s of no matter what happens to me now.” He spoke in hoarse Morningside. “It was foolish of me to try and save myself. I’ve damn well earned a noose.”

“And I’ve damn well earned an explanation,” retorted I, grabbing him by the lapel and pulling him a little closer. I may have felt sympathy for the wretch, but I didn’t want him pulling any tricks on me – especially not the kind that involved a blade between my ribs.

That seemed to make an impression. Richmond shrunk away, watching me nervously with his dark eyes.

“After I killed Alan,” he stammered, “they wouldn’t leave me alone. At first it was merely my life they were after; and I fled and hid myself. But when they knew the Doctor was after ‘em, they started demanding that I find and kill you.

“I was the only one in the gang who had a gift, you see. And to get to me they murdered more and more people, until-”

“Why _did_ you kill Alan?” I interrupted in pained exasperation.

“Richmond,” bellowed someone. “Shut up and finish the blighter, you bastard!”

“Richmond!”

There were at least three of them – one in front of us and two in the mouth of the lane, between us and the square. All tall men, as far as I could see once another electric sphere was floating above my hand, and no doubt armed.

I hurled the sphere at the feet of the closest one. The wet stone under his boots exploded with a series of pale flashes, and he staggered away with a cry of pain.

The distorted expression on Richmond’s bony face was almost animalistic, and his eyes glistened wetly with tears. I took one look at him and threw another lightning aimlessly in the direction of the square. A shower of sparks rained down behind us; a large lime tree branch overhanging the lane caught on fire, and the lane filled with smoke and dancing orange gleams.

“Run, run, run,” I whispered to him desperately, elbowing him hard in the ribs.

He would not. When he shoved me aside, his hand felt heavy and merciless against my chest; heavy enough to wind me, and I stumbled back with a grunt.

A few bullets whizzed past us, but that didn’t seem to give him any pause. Next thing I knew, he was brandishing an impressive chunk of the decorative metal fencing he’d torn out of the wall, and the two men on my right cowered under his blows, their hands up to shield their faces from the deadly spikes. Richmond’s own arms and face, hard grey and brilliantly glistening, were splattered with blood. The strength he showed was barely human – before me was a man whose endurance and whose hope were both at an end; a far cry from the feeble youth I’d seen in him.

His opponents seemed to realize that, too, because they were all but backing into the burning fire to avoid coming face to face with him. One of them turned and tried to get a shot at me, but before he could pull the trigger, Richmond reached him in one tiger-like jump and spun him around. The bullet went over Richmond’s shoulder and was swallowed by the spreading smoke. He seemed utterly unmoved by that near miss; there was on his features a terrifying and desperate smile.

Shaken and disoriented though I was, I thought that I was starting to get a feeling of how Richmond had got himself into this sort of trouble in the first place.

I had little enough time for introspection, however; the first of our attackers was struggling up, a revolver in his wobbling hand. As I blinded him with a light and cracked him over the head with the butt of my own revolver, something heavy flew past us and landed on the very edge of the quay. I looked up. It was the body of one of the men Richmond had taken on, his throat gaping red and his head resting against the stone at a strange angle. Before I could walk closer to it, it toppled over the parapet and went into the river.

I winced. The confrontation had turned sour for them altogether too quickly. It looked like they were fools, after all, whatever Richmond’s opinion on the matter.

Richmond himself was nowhere to be seen. His second opponent sat on the ground, leaning against the stone wall; his breathing was laboured, but upon approaching and examining him I found no lethal injuries. With any luck, he’d live.

I sat on my haunches in front of him and rested my forehead on my hand. There was cold sweat on my brow; my whole body felt weak, and blood clamoured in my veins like the currents of a great river.

A minute passed. Then I heard, distantly at first, the whistling and singing of air behind my back.

I got up slowly and looked towards the square.

A violent gust of pure snow blew past the mouth of the lane. Cold air crept in, sending a shiver down my spine. In the light of the smouldering branch, the flakes flashed golden.

I rushed towards the square and stopped at its edge, blinded for a moment. Icy grains stung my face mercilessly, and gusts of snow licked at my shoes and ankles like the waves of a great white ocean.

Once you know someone intimately, it is hard to confuse their gift with another’s. No two gifted people are alike; no two gifts the same. This magic I knew better than anyone else’s – felt it as keenly as my own. And yet I still blinked in disbelief when I caught a glimpse of the familiar lanky silhouette in the very middle of that chaos.

“Doctor!” I cried, but he couldn’t and wouldn’t hear me.

I stepped forward. The wind nearly swept me off my feet, and my breath caught with cold. But I could see him more clearly now – almost unnaturally upright, both hands clutching at his cane, his black coat and cravat dull grey with bristling frost. He was without a hat, and his curls fluttered in the wind. Then he turned a little and I flinched in alarm: his eyes burned a steady, malevolent silver.

A ll his attention was upon one single thing: the cowering figure before him in which I, with rising fear,  clearly recognized Peter Richmond.

Bell bent down to Richmond and gripped him by the shoulders. His face and the skin of his bare, exposed hands were marble white – a dead, terrible colour no living man’s flesh should be.

As if on cue, the storm quietened a trifle. I heard Bell speak then, in a tone of voice I hope with all my being I need never hear again.

“Did you kill him?” he asked. “Where’s the body?”

“In the river!” I could just make out Richmond’s cracking voice. “He fell into the river after he broke his neck!”

The river was no longer. Below the bridge, strips of frozen black mingled with curled snowdrifts. The stone statues of angels standing on the four columns supporting the structure seemed to be at the point of cracking from the wind and the bitter cold. Their wings were sharp with sword-like slivers of ice; their eyes a blind white.

The blizzard howled and wept not unlike a suffering living creature. I felt that same pain, that same grief fill my own chest as though the frost was eating straight through my very flesh and bone. I had never in my life felt this cold.

I stumbled forward and gripped the post of one of the street-lamps. My hands, suddenly weak and clumsy, slipped a little, and I felt a jagged edge of a rough iced metal decoration slice across my palms. I muttered a hearty curse.

Only a few hundred feet away, Richmond, who still held his position on the bridge, was faring no better. He’d sunk to his knees; violent shivers were wrecking his slight body with vengeance. He was intending to put up his last fight, I could see. The metal of the bridge churned and curled, shooting out monstrous plant-like growths. One of them struck the ground with a crash mere feet away from the Doctor; but this hardly elicited any reaction from him.

“Bell!” I tried again. But the mourning wail of the snowstorm was much, much louder than my voice could ever be.

There was only one thing left for me to do. God knows I had never in my life thought that one day I’d have to battle this man; I’d have sooner done an injury to myself; but for his own sake and for Peter Richmond’s, it had to be done.

I put my freezing hands together. If I didn’t stop this now, then nothing could.

I took a breath of the stinging bitter air and tried to forget the urgency of the situation; the danger, the fear I felt. All that remained in my mind was a dark silent room and a man holding me lightly by the wrist, murmuring guidance and reassurance in my ear.

_Control and observation._

White hot sparks flashed between my bloodied palms, coming together into a fiery flower. It grew and blossomed, spilling through my fingers; my heart pounded in unison with its pulsation, and the more furious was the beat, the more blood I felt drip from my hands, until at last it was an almost uninterrupted trickle. I compressed my numb lips and released the current into the raging storm. It shot skywards and split into a dozen lightning bolts.

The metal growths stretching from the bridge flashed with fire, wilting away in white hot agony. Melting snow pattered against melting metal, hissing and foaming. Lightning struck the square and the bridge in multiple places at once with a low, deafening rumble, splitting stones into pieces. Before that day, I had hardly thought myself capable of such power.

Both Richmond and the Doctor stumbled away. The Doctor whirled to face me, snow still curling ‘round his shoes and the shaft of his cane at a furious speed. His free hand was up in an instinctively defensive gesture; and for a moment I held my breath, half-expecting to be frozen to death on the spot.

Then I could see him stagger back, the silver in his eyes dimming. For a moment he looked as though he’d sink to the ground. Then he visibly brought himself under a modicum of control, the wind around him slowly settling down.

All was silent now, but for the last snowflakes floating to the frozen ground and for the Water of Leith splashing down below. The bridge was stripped of all its railings and decorations; one of the stone blocks had fallen out of it and sunk, leaving it a good two feet narrower in one place. Richmond lay still on the remaining block, his trembling arms shielding his head protectively.

I walked forward hesitantly, the crunching and creaking of the ice under my shoes unnaturally loud. Before I knew it, Bell was before me; his gaze flicked feverishly from my face to my bloodied, dripping wrists.

“That’s all right,” I murmured hurriedly, “I’m all right.”

I offered him one of my injured hands, and he took it gingerly in both of his, running his burning cold fingertips along the scratch. But ascertaining that the bleeding was non-threatening didn’t seem to make him any happier.

“It wasn’t me he killed,” I said. He nodded a little and wanted to say something, but could get nothing out; his tongue no longer obeyed him. His whole body seemed to rebel, his angular shoulders trembling with emotion and his lips twisting.

Only a couple of hours ago I’d wished for some marvellous occurrence to save him from his self-imposed restraints. But this was not the miracle I had wanted.

“I must beg your forgiveness,” said he.

“No, no,” I interrupted desperately, “there’s nothing to-”

His sharp-lined face was ashen, and he covered his eyes with one hand, the other still holding onto mine. I could hear his breathing, sharp and irregular, as though he were struggling for air.

I couldn’t bear to see much more of this. We both knew we hadn’t a lot of time, but I drew him close for a few short moments and stood still, clutching at the lapel of his coat.

“Bell,” I murmured, pursuing no particular object other than to say his name. I could feel his heartbeat, furious and steady, a few inches under my palm.

He took me by the shoulders and held me back a little, his lips twisting in a crooked half-smile. His cheekbones were wet with tears.

“Leave it to you to save the day, eh, Doyle?” said he in a valiant attempt at good humour. “Perhaps you’d care to explain what happened here to save me any further confusion.”

I  turned to look at the bridge. Richmond didn’t seem to be about to go anywhere. In fact, at first his look alarmed me so much I thought he might’ve suffered some injury; but when the Doctor and I approached him, it became obvious he was only  freezing cold and frightened out of his wits.

I would’ve been, too, if I had been in his place; I had no doubt about that. No one could deny that Bell was a powerful man, but this was the first time I had seen him display such terrifying, destructive strength.

Richmond was shaking violently, and there was snow in his entangled hair and on his shoulders. I stood on one knee in front of him, reaching out to unclasp his hands. The Doctor loomed behind me like a shadow.

“He saved my life,” I said, in a warning tone, and Bell stepped away guiltily.

“We won’t hurt you,” I told Richmond in what, admittedly, must’ve been the least convincing reassurance the man had heard in his life. “I’d like to help.”

He raised his head, looking up at me like a terrified beast. His face, bluish with cold, still had blood on it. I had to admit I could certainly see how this sight would’ve alerted the Doctor to the possibility of my premature demise.

I carefully took Richmond’s trembling fingers and let my magic do its work. It was deeply satisfying to feel the low hum of the current flowing in my veins and to see some healthy colour return to his cheeks as I held his hand. The electrical conduction properties of his gift were, of course, a lucky circumstance.

“I suppose we should call the police now,” sighed I, turning my head to the Doctor.

“That’s been done,” he said. He was fiddling nervously with his cane. “This square is surrounded by constables awaiting my signal.”

That gave me some pause. What had Bell’s plan been, exactly? Had he intended to injure or, God forbid, kill Peter Richmond in front of a police squad?

He took out a silver whistle from his pocket and produced a short piercing warble. I could only imagine that witnessing the Doctor’s fight with Richmond must’ve had a severe impression on Hogben’s men, because a good minute passed before we heard them approach; but gradually, a couple dozen uniforms trickled warily into the ruined square. Hogben himself was heading towards us, looking none too pleased. It was he, of course, who would have to explain the extensive destruction of the City property to the mayor.

I didn’t like for him to interrogate the Doctor in his present state, and I stood up and quickly inserted myself between them.

“Now, Inspector,” I said in my most imposing tone, “as you can see, we’ve apprehended Peter Richmond. If you’ll excuse us, Dr Bell and I need to provide some medical attention to Richmond’s gang-mates lest you should leave here with two corpses instead of two men.”

He didn’t look particularly impressed, but he let me have my way.

The mouth of the lane was still obscured with smoke; as we approached it, I raised one hand high, holding an electric sphere as I would hold a lantern. I could vaguely make out the silhouettes of our adversaries – one seemed to have crawled a little way, while the other still sat with his back against a wall, evidently unable to move. Richmond had given him a right battering; but I could hardly bring myself to sympathize.

One of the constables approached us in that moment. The Doctor and I turned to him; he was a blushing big-eared youth, and he looked at Bell with unconcealed admiration.

“I have some minor powers, sir,” he said. “Plants; that sort of thing. If you need any assistance, I would be glad to help.”

Bell walked into the smoke, closer to the man sitting on the cobbles, and sat on his haunches in front of him.

“If you magicked me up a medical bag, lad, that’d be grand,” he said sourly.

“I’ll see if I can procure anything from the station surgeon,” promised the constable before rushing away.

I approached him and lowered myself on one knee beside. Those shoulder wounds looked bad, there was no denying that, and the sooner they were closed the better.

“I’ll need you here, Doyle,” sighed he, and put his hand out the way he’d habitually do during operations. A miniature snow whirl hovered just above his palm, rustling softly as it spun around. Just as habitually, I put my hand over his; there was a slight crackling of electricity, and my fingers tingled pleasantly in response. The snow was rapidly melting, at first transforming into soggy slush and then into pure water. We held a revolving water sphere, sparkling delicately in the gloom.

The Doctor deftly scooped it up with his free hand and set about cleaning the wounds of our questionable patient. I let go of him, breaking the connection; then I stood up and went to examine the thug I’d cracked over the head earlier.

I discovered him still lying on the cobbles but slowly regaining consciousness. His hard green eyes watched me closely as I ran my hands over the bump on the back of his massive head.

“I am trying to provide you with medical treatment here,” I said, in a low voice, “so I would greatly appreciate it if you didn’t force me to inflict further injury upon you instead.”

To emphasize my point, I clicked my fingers, producing a burst of hissing sparkles. From how violently he flinched away, I could see that the experience of being electroshocked had stuck with the poor blighter.

However, the burns on his ankles – where my lightning had hit him – turned out to be slight. I sat with him until the young constable returned to us with a bag that contained some dressings, surgical needles, and a length of catgut. While Bell stitched his patient up, I cleaned and dressed the burns just as if the man had come to me of his own good will and asked for help.

A doctor’s trade is quaint like that; doubly so for the likes of me and the Doctor, who often had to heal the injuries we’d ourselves inflicted and to tend to people as best we could before sending them to the gallows.

After it was all over and Richmond’s gambling friends had been handcuffed, I found myself standing on the quay, looking down into the river waters. Just next to the tips of my shoes, a broad ugly bloodstain ran at a slight angle to the edge and disappeared right over it.

I shone a light at the river. There was no body in sight; the waves lapped lazily against the stone, smooth and black as the night itself. The current must’ve carried the corpse away, towards the middle of the Leith and in the direction of the North Sea.

The Doctor walked up to me, briefly glancing at the scene. Then he fixed his eyes on me.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve only mentioned two attackers to Hogben,” remarked he.

Truth to be told, I wasn’t sure why I had done that myself.

“Perhaps you’re right, of course,” continued he impassively. “It does look to me as though there were only two.”

The corners of his mouth hitched up ever so slightly.

“Do you know _why_ Richmond killed Alan Jameson? There was someone he had to defend. It was a great show of bravery on her part to come to me.

“I wouldn’t be here without her, much less with a police squad. You’ll meet her soon; I left her to the care of the innkeeper from The Three-Tailed Unicorn, not a mile from here.”

Bell turned away, leaning against the parapet and looking at the waves.

“The lad’s got a murder on him already. There’s no need to add to that. And if he has only killed once, it will be easier for the jury to perceive a justification for his behaviour.” He glanced at me and smiled faintly and with some awkwardness. “I’m afraid I owe him something I cannot repay.”

There was so much I needed to ask him, to say to him – perhaps too much – and I was at a loss where to begin. But in that moment he patted me firmly on the arm, turned, and began to steer me back in the direction of the square.

“Let’s see to it that all goes smoothly with Richmond, Doyle,” said he.

Hogben had not lost any time; when we returned, he was locking his prisoners in a police carriage. The Doctor walked slowly forward. He was limping a little worse than usual, and his dishevelled appearance was, of course, more than a little extravagant, but it’d take more than Hogben’s raised eyebrows to deter him. I could sense them both tensing up at the other’s approach.

“We would like to speak to Peter Richmond,” the Doctor said, bowing his head courteously.

“And I would like to know to what the hell happened here,” said the Inspector, a good deal less courteously.

“I’d misjudged the situation,” Bell responded smoothly after a beat. “And I may have been incautious in my use of magic. That is on me, of course, Inspector, and I would like to apologize for the problems I’ve caused to your constables and to you personally.

“But you can hardly deny that three apprehended criminals is a good result.”

Hogben could not.

“Very well,” grumbled he. “I appreciate your honesty, Doctor. You know that I don’t fancy putting you on trial. Still, I will have to offer the Commissioner some manner of explanation.

“There can’t be that many snow mages in Alba.”

“Can’t there?” asked the Doctor innocently.

“Hm.”

“I’m sure the Commissioner will be pleased with your excellent conduct today, Inspector.”

“You make a point there,” said Hogben, scratching his neck. He offered a sly little smile. “And, after all, there’s more to the Empire than our long-suffering city. Who’s to say that our perpetrator couldn’t have fled?”

“I know I would if I were him,” muttered I under my breath. Bell shot me a mildly reproachful look.

“On the condition that you find me that witness you’ve promised, Bell,” the Inspector conceded at last. He turned on his heels and marched off, leaving me and the Doctor standing alone in front of the police carriage.

I glanced around. The cobbles below our feet were still covered with frost; but in places it had partially melted, glinting smoothly with a thin layer of water, and a warm breeze blew through the square, dissipating the smoke. In a few hours all that would be gone; though repairing the wrecked bridge and the dented walls would certainly be more of a problem.

“Well played, Doctor,” came a voice from above, and I looked up only to meet the eye of Peter Richmond. He flashed us a weak smile, his hands in special issue charmed handcuffs holding onto the bars of the carriage window.

I touched my hat to him, and the Doctor nodded silently.

“There’s something I need to ask of you,” Richmond said with some difficulty.

“I know,” shrugged Bell. Seeing Richmond’s look of incomprehension, he elaborated, “Mathilde Spring is the reason I am here. I have found her – or rather, I should say that she’s found _me_.

“The rest of Jameson’s men have been rounded up and arrested. You needn’t worry about that.”

“Thank you,” said Richmond quietly, and his voice broke. But the Doctor waved him off with a wince.

“You’ve nothing to thank me for,” said he. “You owe your gratitude to Mathilde and Dr Doyle here.” He leant heavily on his cane, his expression softening a little. “I can promise nothing, but I shall see what I can do about the outcome of your case.”

Richmond seemed at an utter loss for words. To be sure, I wasn’t certain he realized quite what had happened. The Doctor’s behaviour that day had been a revelation to me; it must’ve looked like perfect lunacy to him.

That was, I supposed, the way with the Doctor. Until one came to know him, one thought him either a lunatic or a charlatan; it took a degree of closeness to the man to realize that nothing could be further from the truth.

“Tell Mathilde she’s a brave little lass,” said Richmond as a way of farewell, and I was glad that that, at least, I could promise him.

The bay Shire stallion pulling the carriage gave a low whinny and started away at a speedy trot. The large unsightly wheels clattered against the stone; soon the carriage was pulling into one of the side lanes leading away from the Height, and we could no longer see it.

Then I linked my arm through Bell’s, and we started down Chirder Burn Street towards the Three-Tailed Unicorn to meet the mysterious Mathilde Spring.

Somewhere beyond the horizon, the sun had already begun to rise, and the sky was a cold merciless blue. A few stars were still scattered here and there, but they were growing paler.

The Unicorn was a narrow two-story building criss-crossed with dark wooden beams, with a steep dark red tiled roof. At this hour, it was virtually deserted; a dozen kerosene lamps illuminated the massive empty tables, competing ineffectually with growing daylight.

Apart from us, the only other person on the first floor was a lanky blond lass of about ten years of age. I hadn’t noticed her at first behind the tremendous plate of shepherd’s pie steaming in front of her. As I came closer, I realized that on her table was an amount of food that could easily be a grown man’s dinner. While she was wolfing down the pie, her free hand was protectively clutching the edge of another large plate containing an impressive quantity of Eton mess.

“I have the pleasure of introducing you to Miss Mathilde Spring,” said the Doctor, sounding more than a little amused. The child shone a pair of small grey eyes up at us, nodded slightly, and set about devouring the rest of the pie, slurping chunks of it off her spoon.

“That’s my down-payment for Miss Spring’s involvement,” commented Bell. “She’ll be busy with it for a while yet. Come, Doyle, we need to patch you up.”

He sat down at a table near one of the tall frosty windows and clicked the medical bag open.

“Your hands, please,” said he pleasantly, slipping into his soothing professional tones. I settled down opposite of him, took off my coat, and rolled up the sleeves of my shirt.

He clicked his fingers a little. Mathilde jumped down from her bench, pattered towards us without letting go of her Eton mess, and reached one of her freckled hands out to the Doctor. A large water sphere bubbled in the air over it, and she plumped it unceremoniously into Bell’s open palms.

“Much obliged,” murmured he with a slight smile, as she ran back towards her table.

“So that’s your witness?” asked I, in low tones. “Do you think she’ll do in the Alba Court?”

“Not the way she looks right now,” shrugged he, soaking a length of dressing in the water. “But wash her face and buy her a pretty dress, and the jury will weep over her story.

“You know how that is.”

I did. I also had a growing suspicion that all his “down-payments” and other preparations aimed at making Mathilde happy and presentable had another purpose apart from that of helping Peter Richmond, but I decided not to voice my thoughts on the matter. He would only deny my claim, of course, much as he was in the habit of denying any other personal favours he did to anyone.

The scratches on my wrists and knuckles were narrow and not particularly deep, ghastly as they may have looked under all the blood. The Doctor wiped them gently and methodically, cleaning off the scarlet to reveal patches of undamaged skin.

I stared down at the bloody water trickling from his fingers. I didn’t quite know where to begin.

“Bell,” I called quietly. He raised an eyebrow questioningly, his attention unwaveringly concentrated on my hands. “Did you mean to kill Richmond?”

“Yes,” answered he bluntly.

“You knew the square was surrounded.”

“I did not intend to escape,” said he, after a small pause. “It… did not matter to me then.”

The smell of carbolic tickled my nostrils.

“This will burn,” warned he softly. It did.

“I have to ask you to forgive me,” he said, measuring out a length of clean dressing.

“Whatever for?” asked I quietly.

“For letting my fears rule our friendship. For trying to teach you to be,” he lingered a little, “more like myself.

“I am not a good man to follow.” A hard cold glint flashed in his eyes. “You can see that now; you can see what it is that I have always tried to conceal and control.

“I’ve attempted to instil that in you, too – _control and observation –_ ” he shrugged a little, offering a self-deprecating smile, “in a thoroughly misguided effort. Only I was afraid for you, Doyle.”

The Doctor took out a knife and carefully snipped off the loose ends of the bandage. It was a neat job – he was always particular about treating even minor injuries with utmost attention.

“There you are,” said he, and made to move away; but I closed my bandaged fingers upon his wrist like a vice.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” hissed I fiercely, “that I may be afraid for _you_?”

He blinked at me in incredulity; I may have as well suggested that the celestial dome had crashed upon earth and obliterated half the country while he wasn’t looking.

Something bubbled in my chest, an awful lot like fury and an awful lot like love.

“I can _see_ it,” I told him in an angry whisper. “I can  see you tormenting yourself with unspeakable cruelty for what you imagine must be the greater good.

“I hated to find you there like that. You were in that much pain and you never once thought to talk to me. How many times had this happened before? I couldn’t say. And I hate this most of all.”

“What I’ve done today-” he attempted, but I scowled and stabbed an accusatory finger at him.

“I’d rather you destroy a thousand more goddamned bridges than yourself, Bell.”

I don’t know if he was more taken aback by my meaning or by my language. I dearly hoped Mathilde Spring hadn’t heard me, because otherwise I had a lot of apologizing to do.

He didn’t look defensive or resentful at my outburst; only very surprised and a little lost.

“You’re like a father to me,” I said, and I no longer knew if I was accusing or pleading. “You gave me hope when I hadn’t any; so many times you’ve saved my life and my sanity.

“Extend to yourself a fraction of the kindness you’ve extended to me. Promise me, Doctor – no more.”

For a few short moments he buried his face in his hands, undone. I sprang up and rushed to his side; he did not protest when I lowered myself on the bench next to him.

I cleared my throat and put a hand on his shoulder.

“May I?” I asked him, feeling a ridiculous compulsion to add _sir_.

“Aye,” he murmured.

Then I gathered the Doctor in my arms and drew him as close as I dared, resting my chin on the rough wet fabric of his coat collar.

I could feel his ribcage rise and fall as he breathed; then a slight falter, and he returned the embrace, one of his hands coming to rest on the nape of my neck.

“Isn’t it, ah,” he paused awkwardly, “aren’t you cold?”

“No,” reassured I. He ran his fingers through my hair with hasty tenderness, as if afraid that I’d change my mind.

It is true holding him was a sensation like no other. His breath was icy on the crown of my head, and the cool of his blood blossomed through his wrists and his hands. The bare part of his neck pressed against my cheekbone pulsed with cold.

But I cherished that. Below it all, I sensed something fierce and alive, a familiar beloved presence, like a river flowing under ice.

“I promise,” he said gravely. “What you’ve asked of me, Doyle; I promise.”

I cleared my throat and blinked away the moisture from my eyes.

“Good,” I said.

In one regard at least it was a lucky circumstance that his clothes were wet through and through after our earlier escapade; I wasn’t sure he would’ve taken kindly to me soaking his lapels with tears otherwise.

He pressed an awkward kiss to my temple and carefully let go of me.

“Thank you, Doyle,” he said, in one of the most unconvincing attempts at casual intonation I’d ever heard from him.

It took me a little while to bring my emotions back under control. I noticed that Mathilde Spring, having finished her food, tactfully remained at her own table and busied herself with sipping tea from an oversized teacup. What she must’ve thought I had no idea; but I was past being embarrassed.

The Doctor stood up and went to fetch her. She clung onto her teacup like it was full of life-saving medicine, and settled down on the opposite bench, staring at the table.

“You’ve upset ‘im,” she huffed at me, pointing to Bell, who had come to stand beside her.

The Doctor laughed, unsteadily but sincerely.

“I’m right grateful for your patronage, lassie,” said he. “But Dr Doyle has done nothing but good for me.”

She took her eyes off me with some reluctance. I’m not sure he quite convinced her of my harmlessness, because she scowled a little before nodding. Bell took out his gloves and pulled them on; and Mathilde sneaked her small hand into his, gripping his leathered thumb. My heart faltered a little at the sight. There had been a time I too wanted nothing but for him to take my hand, to keep me under his protection, to reassure me that no danger would touch us. But there is a time to be protected and a time to protect; and I no longer needed his help, but he was in need of mine.

“What happened to Peter?” asked Mathilde, knitting her brows together.

“He’s been arrested along with the rest of Alan’s men,” responded Bell. “I’ll do what I can to help his cause – with your assistance, Miss Spring, I’m fairly confident of success.” His mouth twitched in a brief smile; then his expression grew colder.

“The rest of them will hang,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow, but it seemed that Mathilde had less delicate sensibilities than I imagined.

“As they should, the vile rats,” snapped she, frowning even deeper. The tea in her cup lurched and swirled, as if stirred forcefully with a large spoon. “They weren’t no good to us, Doctor.”

The Doctor, who was terrible at scolding children, patiently bore having her cooling tea splash all over his sleeve.

“I know,” he said gently. “Peter defended you, didn’t he?”

“Aye,” Mathilde sniffed. “I and other girls who work in Alan’s pub, we can all say ‘e was keen on caning. Lisa got beat so she became sick; and Alan let ‘er go for not showing up to work.

“Peter didn’t like it, us being hit. That day Alan had drunk and was all fearsome like. He came to me saying all sorts of filthy things, said he’d give me the caning of my life, that I’d end up like Lisa and worse.

“Peter quarrelled with him saying no, ‘e couldn’t do that to me, but Alan hit me just to spite ‘im.”

She raised her head to look at us.

“At Saint-Mary’s they say it’s a sin, killin’,” murmured she glumly, blinking, “only I reckon it wasn’t much of a sin what Peter’s done.”

She took her cup in both hands and finally deigned to drink her tea in large noisy gulps. Then she glanced at me over the rim; something seemed to have caught her attention.

“You’re angry,” she observed matter of factly, pointing at my neck. I involuntarily raised a hand to touch my own throat, and drew back in surprise; a spark crackled between my fingers and the skin over my carotid artery, filling my bones with heat. I offered her a guilty smile. It seemed my body didn’t take kindly to attempts at emotional suppression any more than the Doctor’s did.

Unexpectedly, Mathilde seemed softened by that.

“Maybe you’re not that bad, mister,” said she.

“I am also a doctor,” corrected I softly, wincing and rubbing my throat in an attempt to avoid burning my collar.

“Do you work with ‘im at the hospital?” asked she with curiosity, stabbing her teaspoon in the direction of the Doctor.

“I used to,” I murmured, smiling at the memory, “when I was about twice your age.”

“He was my best student, lassie,” said Bell, and I felt myself flushing crimson. Damn it, but I was no better at taking his praise with good grace than I had been when I _was_ a student of his.

Mathilde had finished her tea and busied herself with drinking the remaining milk from the milk jug.

I wondered how this bristly street Arab knew Bell. One of his child patients, surely; but even then the absolute trust she seemed to have in him was unusual. What had he done for her? What other painstakingly concealed heroic deed was behind this relationship?

He watched us both amicably, not betraying in any way that he’d noticed my curiosity. With a sigh, I averted my gaze. I supposed that was a secret I’d have to wait to uncover.

“What are our plans for Miss Spring?” asked I.

“I need to tell Lisa and others that it’s all right now,” piped Mathilde, “and then I’ll come back.”

“We could take you there,” offered I. She seemed to consider it for a moment, tilting her head to the side.

“Thank you, doctor,” she said politely, “only it’ll be quicker if I do it my way.”

I had a vague guess as to what “her way” was, whose truth I became all but convinced of when she jumped down from her bench and tugged at the Doctor’s hand, leading him to the door. I draped my coat over my shoulders, and we exited The Unicorn, Mathilde hopping ahead.

The quay was some fifteen yards away from The Unicorn’s front door. Mathilde turned to us and flashed a broad grin.

“Thank you, doctors,” said she, and whirled round on one heel. Then she ran to the parapet, jumped high in the air, and went right down into the Leith. There wasn’t so much as a splash. I ran after her and looked down into the river; when my eyes finally got used to the sparkling brilliance of the sunrays reflecting in the Leith’s surface, I spotted her – a small figure in a grey ruffled dress, flickering left and right in the middle of the powerful current like a tiny gudgeon.

“She’ll be all right,” laughed the Doctor, walking up to me. “She spent a good half of her life down there. Has a few friends who share her travelling habits, too, I am informed.”

I followed Mathilde with my eyes until she dodged a large fishing boat and disappeared under a bridge. There was no trace of the thick coat of ice that had covered the water only a couple of hours ago; the newly-rising June sun had melted it all, leaving the Leith looking as pristinely blue and peaceful as ever.

“I’m going back to Melville Crescent now,” said Bell, and offered me his hand. He was smiling broadly, the way I hadn’t seen him smile in some time. “Care to be my guest?”

Naturally, I did; and soon we were walking side by side down the quay towards where the pale sky over the city was flushing a gentle golden.


End file.
